The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

to please, to be considered a threat, not that Clara was in the habit of thinking of other women in those terms. Perhaps she should have been, she reflected bitterly now. “Why did it end?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t . . . He didn’t want to leave you. He said he loved you, wanted to marry you”—she began to cry—“that I . . . was a mistake.”

When Clara didn’t say anything, Sadie blurted, “You must hate me. I know you do. But I’m not a horrible person, Clara. I’m really not. I just . . . Where do you think he is? Do you think he’s okay?”

Clara stood up. “How would I know, Sadie?” she said tiredly. “I have absolutely no fucking idea about anything anymore.”

—

Rose called her as she was walking to the tube later that evening. She hesitated, weariness rolling over her, her finger hovering on the ACCEPT CALL button, unsure whether she could face going through DS Anderson’s visit with her once again. Eventually she picked up, knowing that Luke’s disappearance must surely be even worse for Rose than it was for her. “Hello,” she said, “how are you feeling today?”

“Oh, Clara. I can’t bear it. I just keep going over and over where he could be, whether he’s hurt, whether he knows how much we all love him. . . .” Her voice gave way to stifled sobs.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know how awful this is for you.” She hesitated. “How’s Oliver taking it?”

“Very badly. He’s dreadfully upset. This all brings back some extremely painful memories, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m worried about him, Clara. He hardly eats or sleeps, just locks himself away in his study, barely speaking to me.”

Clara’s heart ached for her. She knew how much Rose loved Oliver; her devotion to him had always touched her, how proud she was of him despite her own considerable achievements. The strength of the Lawsons’ marriage was something she’d always aspired to, its generosity and inclusiveness being so unlike the insular, unwelcoming one between her own parents.

“It’s such a comfort to us that Luke has you,” Rose went on. “That we all have you. Knowing you’re there looking for him, helping the police. You’re like a daughter to us, you know that, don’t you, Clara?”

Clara briefly closed her eyes as hurt washed through her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I keep thinking about those awful e-mails. Tell me again what DS Anderson said—he does think they’re connected, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t think he knows yet what—”

“But it must be! The same person who broke into your flat, who took those photographs . . .”

For the briefest moment Clara considered telling Rose about Luke’s affair, that she was washing her hands of her son, that he had hurt her too much for her to care about his whereabouts anymore. But even before the thought was fully formed, she knew she never would. Because despite everything, despite all that he’d done, she couldn’t do it, not to Luke, and especially not to his parents. After all, it was hardly their fault that any of this had happened. “I’m going to get on the tube now,” she said instead. “I’ll phone you as soon as the police get in touch. Try to stay strong, Rose. We’ll find him. I promise.”

Sitting on the Northern line a few minutes later, Clara brooded over Rose’s distress. Her mind wandered to a weekend in Suffolk a year or so before. It had been the day of the village fete, an event organized entirely by Luke’s parents, to raise funds for a little local girl with leukemia. There had been stalls and games, live music and dancing, and the whole village had come along, a joyful atmosphere of community and goodwill in the air. Clara had watched as Rose had danced energetically to the band, while a smiling Oliver had organized tug-of-war contests and run the coconut shy. Despite the weeks and weeks of hard work, the time and money that had gone into organizing the event, she saw how they brushed off all congratulations and thanks with self-deprecating modesty. It was only when the parents of the girl for whom the fete was in honor approached and hugged them both that Clara saw how touched and relieved they were by the day’s success. As her train drew in to Old Street now, Clara got up, reflecting bitterly at how cruel life was. Why was it that bad things seemed to happen to those who least deserved it? Hadn’t Rose and Oliver suffered enough? She stepped out onto the platform, resolving that she would do everything she possibly could to help Luke’s parents find him.

—

Mac was waiting for her on the street outside her building when she arrived. He was leaning against the wall, watching her warily as she approached. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just wanted to see how you are,” he said.

She sighed, too tired to turn him away. “Come up.”

Five minutes later they were seated across the kitchen table from each other. She took in the familiar, endearing gawkiness of him, the pale skin that looked like it barely saw sunlight—which wasn’t far from the truth: Mac was a freelance photographer and spent his nights taking pictures of gigs and music concerts for a living, which meant he often slept during daylight hours. Luke’s funny, loyal friend who could usually make her helpless with laughter within seconds, who until yesterday she had thought was one of her closest friends too. “Why did he do it?” she asked. “We’ve only just moved in together—he told me he loved me! What the fuck was he playing at?”

Mac shrugged helplessly. “Because he’s a bloody idiot.”

“You should have told me, Mac. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. Think about the position I was in. I fucking hated it. But it needed to come from him, not me. I told him to tell you. I told him over and over—you’ve got to believe that!”

She